Page 20

TRAZ

T he knock comes just after dark.

Sharp.

Measured.

My hand goes to the knife on my belt before I even think about it.

Kelli stiffens where she’s settling the kids down in the corner, her body snapping tense like a wire about to snap.

I tilt my head at her—stay there—and move toward the door.

"Silpha," comes the voice from outside.

I don't relax.

Not yet.

I crack the door open with one hand, keeping the knife low and ready.

She stands alone, wrapped in that tattered coat of hers, eyes sharp, mouth pressed into a grim line.

"It's clear," she says low. "Let me in."

I yank the door open wider, dragging her inside fast before someone sees.

She moves quick, setting down a satchel that clinks with the sound of ration packs and spare charges.

The kids stare at her with wide, silent eyes.

Kelli stands, arms folded, jaw tight.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

Silpha scans the room once, quick, then plants her hands on her hips.

"Opportunity," she says. "But it isn’t free."

I cross my arms.

"Talk."

Silpha jerks her chin toward the table.

We crowd around, the kids hovering close to Kelli’s legs.

"I got word from a freighter captain," she says, laying out a battered datapad. "No loyalty to Petru. No questions asked."

She taps the screen, showing a map of the lower docks.

"They're willing to take you off Glimner. Disappear you so deep even Petru’s rats won't sniff you out."

Hope flares hard and sharp in my chest before I can beat it down.

"But," she says grimly, "it's in one week. Docking schedules, bribes, fuel permits. You can't rush this."

Kelli blows out a breath, sagging a little against the table.

"A week," she repeats, voice flat.

Silpha nods.

"A week," she says. "You don't make it, you don't get another shot."

I run a hand through my hair, jaw grinding.

A week.

Might as well be a damn lifetime in a place like this.

Petru’s men were already sniffing around.

We could survive seven more days... or we could bleed out in a gutter for trying.

No in-between.

Kelli pushes her hair back, her hand trembling.

"You trust this contact?" she demands.

Silpha’s mouth twists.

"About as much as I trust anyone in this hellhole," she says. "But the freighter’s real. Saw it with my own eyes."

I study her.

The tension in her shoulders.

The flicker of real fear she can't quite hide.

She's not selling a dream.

She's selling the only shot we've got.

I look at Kelli.

She’s pale, lips tight, but there’s steel in her spine.

She meets my gaze, silent.

Waiting.

Letting me lead.

I nod once.

Slow.

Hard.

"We’ll be ready," I say.

Silpha huffs out a breath.

"I'll keep feeding you supplies," she says. "Small batches. Nothing that'll tip off the patrols."

She pulls a folded slip of paper from her coat and slides it across the table.

"Coordinates," she says. "Service tunnels. Smuggler routes. Places you can hole up if it gets hot."

Kelli snatches it up, scanning it quick.

"How hot we talkin'?" I ask.

Silpha grimaces.

"Petru’s getting twitchy," she says. "Word is, he knows something's off. He’s been questioning everyone who ever even breathed your names."

My fists clench.

Damn bastard’s got eyes everywhere.

"We keep our heads down," I mutter. "Quiet. Careful."

"Exactly," Silpha says. She jabs a finger at me. "No heroics. No showing your face in the wrong sectors. You get caught, you’re dead. And worse—your kids are dead too."

I feel Kelli flinch beside me.

I set my hand over hers under the table.

Squeeze once.

Silent promise.

Not while I’m breathing.

Silpha checks the window, restless.

"I can't stay long," she mutters. "I have my own trail to cover."

She slings her satchel back over her shoulder.

"You need anything," she says, meeting my eyes, "you send signal on channel nine. Only once. Only if you’re cornered."

I nod.

She pauses at the door.

Looks back.

Her face softens a fraction when she looks at Kelli.

At the kids.

"You have one shot at this," she says rough. "Make it count."

Then she's gone, swallowed by the shadows.

The silence after she leaves is thick.

Heavy.

Joren presses close to Kelli’s leg.

Aria tugs on the hem of my jacket.

"Are we leaving, Papa?" she asks, voice tiny.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs.

I crouch, pulling them both close.

"Yeah, little warrior," I say hoarse. "We are."

She nods solemn, like I just handed her a mission.

Joren just buries his face in my chest.

I lift him into my arms, feeling the frail strength of him.

The steady thrum of life.

Gods help anyone who tries to take that away from me.

Kelli moves around the room, quick and efficient, gathering supplies, stashing weapons, checking the battered satchels we’ll need to survive the next seven days.

I watch her a minute.

The way her jaw tightens.

The way her hands shake when she thinks nobody’s looking.

She’s scared.

Hell, we all are.

But she doesn't quit.

Doesn’t fold.

She just keeps moving.

Fighting.

Surviving.

I cross the room in two strides and catch her hand.

She jerks, startled, but doesn't pull away.

I tug her against me, wrapping my arms around her, holding her tight enough to make my ribs ache.

For a second, she stands stiff.

Then she sags into me, forehead pressing into my chest.

"We can do this," I murmur against her hair. "We will."

Her fingers clutch my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish again.

"I know," she whispers.

And somehow, I think maybe we will.

Maybe we can finally stop running.

Maybe we can finally be a family.

If we live long enough to see that ship lift off.